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Derek Hale was in a bad mood.

He was, after all, Derek Hale; he was brooding, as he was wont to do, alone in his burned-out house, the ghosts of his family whispering in the walls. He was reading a copy of Treasure Island he’d found on the front step in a pile with three other books.

He had no idea where they had come from, but he liked that they were there, and so bad mood or not he was reading Treasure Island when there was a knock on the door, accompanied by an entirely familiar scent which for the very first time, made Derek feel strange in his bones;

“So why did your family build the house this far back anyway? Oh I guess, privacy. Can’t exactly have wolves running around in the ’burbs, can you? Not that anyone would notice. Can’t believe no one does notice. The death rate in this town oughtta put us on the map, don’t you think,” and he had food with him, which was interesting; tin-foil boxes of pasta with rich meat sauce and a garlic bread about a foot and a half long. The scent of parmesan and basil. “But they just walk around, la de da, nope, nothing to see here. Do you know if vampires are real?”

“Vampires?”

“Vampires.” Stiles nodded, and made what Derek had to assume was a vampire face, though it brought to mind a teenaged boy with attention deficit disorder and an overbite.

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought food.” And Stiles handed Derek a container of pasta which was probably meant to feed three people. And a fork. A proper stainless steel fork. Derek stared at it for a long moment before accepting it, with a questioning look at Stiles. Stiles shrugged. “You hate plastic forks. What?”

Derek growled, low in his throat, and tore the lid off the pasta. “Still didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

Stiles sat alongside Derek on the couch and it was a couch big enough for two, easily, but it still felt a little close.

“Sure I did. I brought food. Italian food.” And then he was off again, something about the chef at the restaurant where he got their meal and maybe he puts rats in the meat like the rumors say but Stiles doesn’t care, because it tastes “so fucking good, it’s probably actually building up in my fine young arteries as I eat it, turning me into an old man before my time. Can’t eat this at home because dad can’t, you know, but I brought him a tuna salad sandwich so he’ll be okay. Brought him a cookie too because if he wants a snack later he’ll eat something deep fried, if there’s no cookie.”

“Why would you bring me food?”

Because this was alien territory for Derek, the bringing of food. In his experience, people didn’t often bring food to loners who lived in burnt-out houses in the middle of the forest and turned into enormous monsters.

“Um.”

It was the shortest thing Derek had ever heard Stiles say and quite possibly all the more profound for it. That Stiles had lost the power to run his mouth word after word after word was nothing short of breathtaking but after a moment Derek realized he actually missed it.

“Stiles.”

“Well, we don’t really know each other, you know,” and he was eating in the breaths he took at each comma, his fascinating face jumping about, eyebrows like two separate beings, chasing each other over the whole of Stiles’s forehead.

(Fascinating face?)

Derek was eating more calmly, methodically, but at a pace; he’d eat it all and anything Stiles left behind and more than his share of the garlic bread, dripping butter, too.

“I mean whenever it’s just the two of us it’s usually because something’s trying to kill me or trying to kill you and one of us is saving the other, you know. So we never really get to do the bonding thing and it seems like a sort of a good idea to do that, you know? Hey, you’re reading Treasure Island. Thought you might like that. You should read the others, too. I thought about bringing Call of the Wild but I was worried you’d think I was making a joke. I never joke about literature. Nuh-uh. Not me. See? Now you know something about me. More than you did before.”

“The books?”

Derek had eaten two-thirds of the garlic bread by the time he realized Stiles was actually saying he’d been the one to deliver the pile of mystery books.

“Yeah. So you want me to bring Call of the Wild? But like I was saying, we don’t really know each other and Scott is always there and you have to yell at him and he has to be indignant and I never really get a look in. So, food.”

The sauce was rich and the meat was not rat-meat and Derek thought he should say that so at least he was saying something. Making a contribution.

“Beef,” was his contribution.

“Huh?” Stiles’s mouth was open and he had red sauce on his chin. And above his lip, too. Derek felt his hand twitch, reaching for a paper napkin, wanting to take Stiles by the chin and hold him still while he cleaned his face but instead he shook his head.

“Not rat. It’s definitely beef.”

Stiles shrugged. “Good to know. Hey, is that a thing? You can smell what kind of meat…? Because seriously our lunches at school. And actually that reminds me.” And wordlessly, he handed Derek the rest of his container of pasta, reaching for the remaining garlic bread. Derek accepted the container without comment and began, again methodically, to eat what was left.

“The smell thing, I’m curious. Can you smell, like, everything? Man I bet you wish you could turn it off sometimes. Are there more bad smells or good smells? Can you pick between people? Oh, my god. What do I smell like? Holy shit, that was a weird thing to ask. I should ask Scott, though. I really want to know now.”

And Stiles packed up the empty containers, back into the plastic bag, and tied a neat knot at the top, and handed Derek a bottle of Mountain Dew. He had a bottle of coke for himself and Derek wondered, couldn’t help but wonder, when Stiles had managed to make all these observations about him. Mountain Dew instead of coke and not liking plastic forks, and how he liked to read but had no books and yeah, if Derek was honest, Call of the Wild would have come off like a bad joke but he wanted to read it now. Hadn’t read it since he was a kid and that felt like a very long time ago.

“Man, I really wanna know, now,” and Stile’s face was doing the crazy jumbled eyebrows thing again. It was distracting enough so that Derek had lost track of what he was saying.

“What?”

“What-what?” Stiles frowned. “Tiramisu?”

“Tiramisu?”

And Stiles pulled two plastic containers from a second plastic bag in his rucksack and handed one to Derek along with again, yes, a proper spoon. He handed one to Derek who took it, he realized quite quickly, with a touch too much vigor, making Stiles jump.

(It shouldn’t be possible to accept delicious dessert angrily, Derek thought, but he sort of had.)

Stiles was once again rattling away but he was mainly focused on the tiramisu and Derek was mainly watching him eat. He was talking about lacrosse practice and isn’t he lucky he doesn’t go to a school where the cool sport is something you don’t need so much padding for because one day “Jackson is actually going to kill me. Dead. He’ll break my neck. Maybe it’s not too late to pick a non-contact sport. Ballet, anyone?”

“What do you want to know?”

Stiles was packing up the last of the rubbish and then he sort of rearranged himself on the couch, a bundle of strong, gangly adolescent (ADOLESCENT) limbs and his face still doing the face-thing it did. “What do I what?” He was leaning forward, mouth agape, staring at Derek like Derek had started reciting poetry.

“You said, ‘man. I really wanna know now’.”

“I said that?” Still with his eyes on Derek like that (and fuck, what color were they even?), wide and unblinking.

“You have food on your face.”

Stiles sent his tongue questing after a bit of stray cream. Still sat there ogling Derek like he was a particularly interesting monkey. And then he blinked, sort of stupidly, and sent his eyebrows actually into his hairline and nodded. “Yeah. I was just wondering what I smell like.”

“You smell like… you.” And my couch, he thought.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Eau de Stiles, good to know, good to know. Is it a particularly masculine smell?” As he said it he sort of did a scrunch-roll-open thing with his stupid elastic face and made spirit fingers so Derek grabbed his hand and pulled it right up to his nose, and sniffed the inside of his wrist.

It wasn’t as if they’d never been this physically close before but usually, yeah, someone was dying or he was asking Stiles to cut off his arm, and other than the usual oh-that’s-Stiles thing Derek did when the kid got close enough to smell, Derek had never really paid that much attention.

So he paid attention now because Stiles had brought him books and food and a couch to sit on. He closed his eyes and inhaled and inhaled.

Stiles, he noticed, was still. Very still. Still as a stone, still as Stiles was ever able to be. His heart beat had begun to race but Derek didn’t think too much about it because this close, his senses were on overload, because Stiles smelled…

Really fucking good.

Derek inhaled again, and the scent shifted, subtly. Hormones, adrenaline, all that changed a person’s scent. Subtle, but impossible to ignore. Derek pulled again, nearly yanking Stiles into his lap, his nose following the length of Stiles’s arm, to the translucent skin of his inner elbow, up, up, through the irritating fabric of Stile’s t-shirt (the wolf, it should be noted, wanted to tear the shirt off, but the man let it stay unmolested) and then he changed tactics, pushing Stiles against the arm of the sofa so he could press his nose into Stiles’s neck, still snuffling and smelling.

“Is this weird?” Stiles wanted to know, but Derek was helpless by then. Could barely understand a word he was saying.

“Is it weird to you?”

It was the quietest Stiles had ever been in the months Derek had known him and already he missed the run-on talk, wanted Stiles to talk and talk while he breathed in this ridiculous scent.

“Um.” Stiles swallowed and it sent a ripple across the skin on his throat. Sent a fresh batch of whatever the fuck that smell was into Derek’s over-developed olfactory system and made him, oh, god, actually lick Stiles from the front of his throat to his ear, a wide, messy swipe that made Stiles sort of bend, curve, mould himself against Derek’s body.

Stiles nodded. “Head says yes, weird. Pants say we’re cool.”

Shit fuck balls.

Derek was across the room in a flash. Far enough away so that smell couldn’t confuse him any more.

“You’d better go.”

Stiles, apparently shocked that he was no longer the meat in the Derek/sofa sandwich, blinked several times.

“Go, Stiles.”

“You’re not gonna help me with…” and he waved sort of pathetically in the direction of his groin. “You’re the one who caused this particular problem.”

“I said…”

Stiles made a sort of petulant face and frowned intensely. “I am not bringing you Call of the Wild,” he said, collecting the rubbish and his rucksack.

And he stalked irritably out the door.

**

The second time was definitely, definitely Derek’s fault. In fact he went out looking for it.

Tracker dogs could be given an item of clothing to sniff and then track the owner of the item for miles, the specific scent stored in memory. Packs used the same innate biological ability to find each other.

Derek had basically programmed himself to actually, literally stalk Stiles and his stupid scent and his ridiculous face all over Beacon Hills. Which is what he was doing, now, apparently. Drawn to the school where Stiles would have just finished lacrosse practice. He waited by Stiles’s jeep. Feeling like a filthy old man but wanting. Really unbelievably fucking wanting to smell Stiles again.

Unfortunately, Scott was with him.

“What are you doing here?” Scott had a wary, irritated look. Defensive in advance of whatever fuckery Derek was about to dump on them. “I told you…”

“It’s cool, Scott,” Stiles said. Stupid smug expression on his stupid face. “Not a new monster. Family thing. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure you need to go write about Alison in your diary or something.”

Scott looked like he wanted to protest but Stiles unlocked the jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat and Derek climbed into the passenger seat and Scott hunched half-over and slunk off to the bike racks, waving to someone Derek didn’t know and didn’t give a crap about, but distracted, anyway, which is all Derek wanted.

“Hungry?”

Oh, fuck, was Derek hungry. He grunted.

“We can go get a slice.”

Derek shrugged, and Stiles pulled out of the car park, easing out into the street. Derek flared his nostrils. Eager for another whiff. Unwilling and sort of half ridiculously terrified about what he would do if he got close enough to get one.

“That good, huh?”

Derek frowned.

“I mean me. I mean I smell really good, right? I asked Scott, actually. He said I just smelled like me and gave me a weird look and went back to talking about Allison which is pretty much basically all he does. So I asked him to really smell me, and I put my wrist right up to his face and he sort of gave me a sniff and asked if I’d taken my Adderall and I had, you know. And I asked Isaac and he called me a dick and kind of looked funny at me. So then I asked Danny because, you never know your luck…”

“Danny’s not a wolf.”

“No, and he suggested I wear aftershave if I want people to sniff me, you know. Which was whatever. So are you? Actually?”

“What?”

“Hungry. I am. So it’s not a werewolf thing. I guess it’s just you, thinking I’m delicious? Hmm?”

Part of Derek wanted to tell Stiles to shut up and another part wanted him to just keep talking and talking so he said nothing, until Stiles parked not on the street but down in the alley that ran alongside the pizza café he’d clearly decided they were going to.

And offered up his wrist.

Derek twitched. “Let’s eat,” he said, and climbed out of the car.

With a pizza between them and Stiles sucking ridiculously on an iced chocolate (and seriously, pizza and chocolate? Seriously? And why does he do that thing with his face? Who taught him to use a straw?) Derek finally spoke, and when he did, he said “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Stiles shrugged and took a mouthful of pizza and even chewing, talked like a champ; “Well, other than being sort of terrifying generally and having the glowing eyes thing happening you’re not a bad guy, really, and on balance I think ol’ Beacon Hills is better off with you here than not here.” He swallowed, and sipped at the iced chocolate again, weird little face twisting up into something really quite beyond insane, and then looked up at Derek like he’d half forgotten he was there; “And the tongue thing, hmm. Hard to be scared of a guy after he’s given you a tongue bath. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Finish your pizza,” is what Derek said. He didn’t add ‘because I’m gonna do more than give you a tongue bath when we get outta here’ because that, he had decided, would be a weird thing to say.

Stiles’s pocket squeaked and he fished his phone out of it, frowning at the display. “Dad. He’s not gonna be home until late. Hmm. Big empty house.” He waggled his eyebrows at Derek with no thought to subtlety or grace and grinned.

Little fucker knew exactly what he was doing.

“Finish your pizza,” Derek said again, and they did it, both of them, finished the pie between them.

And Derek paid, which made Stiles bounce on the balls of his feet and mutter that he hadn’t realized this was “an official date, my, my.” And heading back to the jeep still bouncing alongside Derek while Derek prowled irritably. And Derek pulled the keys out of Stiles’s hand because he really needed something to focus on that wasn’t the scent of Stiles’s skin, Stiles’s blood.

“That wasn’t a date.” Derek was slightly impressed that Stiles didn’t argue, just climbed into the passenger seat and clicked his seat belt closed and lazed back.

“Whatever, man,” and Stiles made another series of faces, each chasing the last off his face.

Jesus Christ, but the kid was growing on Derek.

(KID.) Derek shook his head and pulled up out the front of Stiles’s house and climbed out, sort of mildly confused as to why he was there and also sort of thinking that this would be the first time he’d used the front door.

Stiles snatched his keys back and half-bounced his way to the door, too, unlocked it and pushed through, waiting for Derek to follow him inside. Derek made fists of his hands and unclenched them again. The house was an ode to the smell that was Stiles, all concentrated, and now that Derek was thinking about it, he couldn’t understand how he had survived it before.

He flared his nostrils, walking as calmly as he could behind Stiles, towards the living room.

Stiles took off his jacket and threw it on the kitchen counter, letting a fresh wave of that stupid scent into the room. And then Derek was less calm. He didn’t realize what he was doing until Stiles was beneath him on the couch, squirming and wriggling and still chatting away.

“Stiles. Stay. Still.”

Stiles tried, he really did, not that it helped much, and Derek tried very hard not to think about the fact that he was pushing Stiles’s t-shirt up over his head, that he was rubbing his goddamned face into Stiles’s stomach, that his tongue was out, that he was actually tasting Stiles’s skin. He let out a sound that was suspiciously like a growl, and Stiles laughed.

“This is without a doubt the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” Stiles said, and followed it up by taking his t-shirt the rest of the way off. “Not that I’m complaining, because obviously, I’m not. I was gonna make a crack about not letting a guy lick his way up my snail trail until he’s at least bought me dinner but I guess you took care of that, huh?”

Derek manhandled Stiles until he was lying almost fully prone on the couch, still licking and tasting and resisting his wolf’s urge to hold Stiles down with his teeth.

But it wasn’t enough.

He wanted Stiles to soak into his skin, wanted to absorb him. Derek shifted so he was pressing Stiles into the couch, capturing him with arms and thighs and the very heavy, very hard cock he was trying not to think about.

He licked his way across Stiles’s bare collarbones and up his neck, and Stiles sort of groaned again, rolling his hips against Derek’s, sneaking a hand up into Derek’s hair. Sighing when Derek licked him just right, rolling his head left or right to facilitate better access. Derek wrapped a firm hand over Stiles’s hip, controlling and okay, yeah, maybe actually he just wanted a handful of Stiles’s ass.

Fuck Derek Hale’s entire fucking life.

“Well,” Stiles said, between groans, “we have matching pants-problems, now. You know what? I actually have a solution which could… oh right there, yeah, uh… I know a real neat method for solving those sorts of problems, and it’s called taking your clothes off and… watch the teeth, Sourwolf, watch… We could take this upstairs, you know…”

But no, they couldn’t ‘take this upstairs’. ‘Taking this upstairs’ would mean confronting some stuff Derek wasn’t ready to confront about exactly what he was doing, which was rapidly becoming a whole lot more than what he had set out to do.

Reluctantly, Derek moved his nose from the crook of Stiles’s neck, and leaned back a touch; enough to meet Stiles’s eyes, take in his swollen lower lip and the cracked-open expression on his face.

Derek sat up, fighting the scent, and needing, urgently, to be further away from Stiles’s mouth. He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t do this,” he said.

“Ah… a minute ago you were doing it. That enormous dick of yours seemed to be enjoying it quite a lot.”

Derek stood slowly, feeling half drugged. Stiles’s expression was one of betrayal and disbelief and all the other things a teenaged (TEENAGED) boy with a boner and no immediate avenue for release would ordinarily feel.

Derek had to leave, right now. Now now now. Five minutes ago. Stiles sat up properly, then, and it was outrage. Nothing short of outrage. “Come on, man. I mean. Come on!” And then his mouth was just open, tongue settled inside it like…

Oh, fuck.

Derek leaned down to pick Stiles’s t-shirt off the ground. “I’m keeping this,” he said, shaking it at Stiles like a threat.

“That’s my Green Lantern shirt!”

“Before you go anywhere near Scott – or anyone – take a shower. A long one. Scrub hard,” he added, before slipping out of the house and all the way home.

Sitting on the porch of his house and thinking over the events of the afternoon Derek found himself glaring so viciously at the trees that he began to wonder if they’d creep away in the night in fear, and leave him even more alone.

Sourwolf.

“Little fucker,” Derek snorted, reaching for his phone. He painstakingly typed out a text to Stiles.

Did you call me Sourwolf?

A few minutes later, the reply came, in the form of a series of angry-looking emoticons.

Derek shrugged, and returned to glaring at the trees, pausing from time to time to sniff at Stiles’s t-shirt, slung over his shoulder.

**

In retrospect, the t-shirt might have been a bad idea.

Derek took it to bed with him. Shoved his face in it and sniffed and sniffed and it was the worst sort of drug, the smell of Stiles Stilinski, and Derek sniffed and sniffed and rubbed it on himself and dreamed about that mouth, that mouth that never stopped moving, over words and food and straws. Derek imagined it quiet, or mostly quiet, making delicious slippery-sucking-slurping sounds over Derek’s own cock. He inhaled the t-shirt and imagined fucking Stiles, scent-marking him inside and out, holding him down with his teeth. He imagined coming nasty thick white streaks over Stiles’s stomach and chest and licking them away with his tongue.

So yeah, basically, fuck Derek Hale’s entire fucking life.

He kept the t-shirt anyway.

**

Derek worked hard to avoid spending time alone with Stiles after that. Alone, he knew he’d push Stiles up against the wall and hold him there while he sniffed and licked, while he smelled the skin of Stiles’s throat. Maybe next time it would be too hard to stop, and Derek would tear at Stiles’s clothes until there was nothing between them. Bury his face in the dark hair at Stiles’s crotch and see how that smelled different, what his cock would taste like.

But, Beacon Hills, wolves, monsters, hormones, blah blah blah, there was always going to be something; and when Stiles (ridiculous; he shouldn’t have even been there) tried to intervene in a fight between Boyd and Erica (rock, meet vicious bitchy hard place) he got thrown several feet across the car park and was given a crash course in deceleration when he hit – of all the fucking things – Jackson’s car.

Erica and Boyd had, of course, immediately forgotten their argument, because there was something about Stiles, they treated him like pack, mostly – like pack that was far too easily damaged, but pack nonetheless – and they’d bundled him into his Jeep, and Scott had driven him to the hospital to get his head checked out.

He was okay. But Derek watched him climb, miserable and bruised and with two stitches above his eyebrow, into the passenger side of his Jeep. He watched the pack stand sheepishly in front of the hospital, pointedly not looking at him (though they knew he was there, could smell him) and his wolf quietly howled in his chest.

Long after the sun went down, Derek leapt up onto the roof of the Stilinski house and pushed open Stiles’s bedroom window. Stiles was in bed, already, in loose pajama pants slung low on his hips. He turned to the window to fix Derek with a glare.

“Everything hurts,” he said. “I’m not up for another round of sexually frustrating scratch and sniff.”

The room smelled glorious, but Derek stayed calm. He shrugged, and removed his jacket, hanging it over the back of Stiles’s desk chair. He sat on the edge of Stiles’s bed and unlaced his boots, pulling them off and placing them with some precision beneath the window. He pulled the window most of the way closed.

“I get cold at night,” Stiles complained.

“You won’t, tonight,” Derek said. He slipped his t-shirt over his head and removed his belt.

Stiles raised an eyebrow and flinched. The cut over his eye hurt, Derek supposed, and it made him flash a moment of anger.

A few days later, Derek waited by Stiles’s jeep again. Watched him walk back from the lacrosse field. Alone, for a change. Derek hesitated, wondering if he should just go, but then Stiles looked up, and grinned widely, and there was no way in hell.

“Look what we have here,” Stiles said. “Welp. No. I don’t think so. Forget it. Another round of Sniff Stiles is not on the table for today, but thanks for playing.” He threw his bag in the back and crossed his arms, mock-glaring at Derek. “You can’t tease the mighty penis like that and then let it go unsatisfied. It’s just plain bad manners. So, no. Unless you’re going to advance the plot here, I’m off.”

“Good enough for me,” Stiles said, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Where are we going?”

Fuck Derek Hale’s entire fucking life. “Is there anyone home at your place?”

“No.” Stiles pulled out of the car park and talked and talked. “Finstock loves putting me in goal when everyone needs an ego boost,” he said. “It’s great, boosting morale, but one of these days it would be nice if I managed to block something. Just once, you know? Pretty sure Danny actually deliberately launched the ball at my stick, and I still missed it. Great guy, Danny, and he always smells good. Like me, I guess, only he smells good to everyone…” And on, and on, pointlessly filling the space up with sound.

It was… soothing. And then they were at the Stilinski house, and as soon as they were inside, and Stiles had dropped his bag, he spun around with his hands on his hips like a little old woman.

“Kiss me,” he said.

“What?”

“From now on, that’s how this starts. No sniffing me until you’ve at least done the gentlemanly thing and kissed me. New rule. I’ll write it down, if you like.” He was doing the staring thing, eyes wide and mouth a little open, that pink tongue just hidden away out of sight. Derek glared.

“I’m not very good at this,” he said.

“I had noticed. You’ll manage.” Stiles licked his lips.

Derek glared and fumed and stared at Stiles’s mouth and came perilously close to actually stomping his foot. And then he sighed, an alien sort of sound, coming from him; a soft little huff.

“Still waiting,” Stiles said.

Derek made fists with his hands, and released them again.

“Would it be so terrible? You see, the way I understand it, when a big bad wolf and a… me really like each other…”

So Derek closed the distance between them, and kissed Stiles. Wasn’t sure what to do with his hands or for that matter, really, his tongue, which wanted to just explore every inch of Stiles’s naked body. And he smelled so distracting. But Stiles took over, making a sort of delighted murmur and cupping his hands around Derek’s face. He parted his lips and took Derek’s tongue into his mouth, all enthusiasm, little grace.

Derek’s hands found Stiles’s hips and he pulled him closer. Stiles made a sort of meep, which Derek took as approval, and pulled away a little. He met Derek’s eyes, grinning, a wicked sparkle in them making Derek’s wolf growl possessively.

“Ever wondered what I smell like naked?”

“Yes,” Derek grunted. Hadn’t actually intended to be so blunt, but he said it, and began to manhandle Stiles toward the staircase.

Stiles turned around, and started to climb the stairs. “I bet I smell awesome naked. I swear though, Derek, if you freak out on me and leave again? No more sniffing Stiles. I will wear five different kinds of cologne and I’ll go on a fruitarian diet and I won’t smell right, then, will I? And I’ll shower five times a day. That’ll ruin everything.”

Derek grunted.

Stiles pushed open the door to his bedroom, oh, that glorious scent. Stiles Stiles Stiles. Flashing in Derek’s head like a beacon. And it was quite enough; Derek pushed Stiles down onto the bed, dragging his t-shirt over his head.

Stiles lay back with his hands behind his head. “Let the sniffing commence,” he said, weird little pixie face contorting around the words. Derek needed little encouragement. He pressed his face against Stiles’s stomach, and breathed deeply.

“You could take your shirt off, too,” Stiles said, running one hand over Derek’s head. “Again, sort of polite.” Derek pulled off his jacket and shirt and was quietly delighted at the expression on Stiles’s face; the appreciative turn of his lip. He kicked his shoes off, his socks. Unbuckled his belt. Stiles whistled. “Not one to drag out a strip-tease? I can get behind that.”

Derek pulled his jeans down over his hips, freeing his poor jailed erection at last, and Stiles’s eyes went very big and round.

“Really not one to drag out a strip-tease.”

“Stiles,” Derek said. “Pants off. It’s polite.”

Talking a teenager out of his clothes was never going to be difficult. A button, a belt, a zipper, and Stiles was wriggling his way out of his own jeans, dropping them unceremoniously off the side of the bed. “Now, I’m serious, Sourwolf. If I don’t get an orgasm out of this…”

But he went silent, then, or at least, stopped making words – just a series of disconnected consonants and the occasional long vowel, because Derek buried his face in Stiles’s crotch. Lifted his hips partway off the bed and licked and sniffed and tasted Stiles’s rim, ghosted his mouth over Stiles’s perineum. Licked his inner thigh and then because he couldn’t not, couldn’t for another single second, licked his way up Stiles’s straining cock.

Stiles made a strangled half-shout at that, and a second sound, possibly even stranger, when Derek took his whole cock in his mouth. He was already a mess, steadily dribbling pre-come, and hard as diamonds. Harder. Inelegantly thrusting up into Derek’s mouth, just wanting and wanting.

Stiles arms and legs flapped and flailed and under any other circumstances Derek would have laughed, or growled, or punched his arm, or something. But instead he held Stiles down by the hips and kept on sucking and tasting until Stiles half tried to sit up, and shouted, “you’re about to get a mouthful of jizz, unless you… oh. OH, my god, too late.”

It had been an awfully long time since Derek had done this, but he swallowed and sucked until Stiles was milked dry.

“This is so awesome,” Stiles said. “This is like five different jerk-off fantasies coming true, all at one time.” He sounded half drunk, his lower lip swollen, his chest – more muscular than Derek would have guessed – flushed and red. “Are we… do you… I have no idea what I’m doing but I’d happily return the favor. I mean, maybe you could offer some helpful hints? I watch a lot of porn, but my real-world experience is kinda limited to… yeah, watching porn. But I have heart. You’d agree? So I could… I mean… Derek?”

“Ooh, wow. So you want to…?” Stiles reached into the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a bottle of something apparently watermelon flavored, tossing it to Derek. “Hmm. Okay, again, only got the porn to work with, here. Gonna need a little guidance. Go easy on me, would you? I’ll be telling this story to my grandchildren one day. ‘The time I got deflowered by a werewolf.’ So I’m gonna need you to… Oh. Oh, wow. That’s a finger. You just kind of went for it, huh? Oh, my GOD. That’s my prostate? That’s fucking amazing!”

“You’ve never done this before,” Derek said, though his course was set and nothing short of Stiles actually changing his mind was going to stop him. He worked Stiles open, carefully, slowly.

“I’ve never done anything before. Well… Scott and I gave each other hand-jobs, once, a couple of years ago. We were trying to work out if we were into dudes. Turns out, I am. But Scott oh, my god, Derek. Whatever that was? Keep doing that. That is oooooh, my god.” He looked up at Derek, eyes big and round and dark, perched up on his elbows. “I haven’t been holding on to my virginity like it’s some precious flower, though. In case you were wondering. I’ve been trying to give it away for… three fingers? Okay, now you’re bragging.”

This turned on, Stiles smelled even better, so with a lazy hand tugging himself fully erect again, Derek leaned and kissed and licked over Stiles’s chest and stomach. The wolf wanted to close his jaws over Stiles’s shoulder and hold him down that way, but the man, firmly in control, knew Stiles was going nowhere.

Derek lined himself up, looking cautiously up at Stiles’s face for a moment, but Stiles was just craning his neck, trying to see; near impossible, but he was trying anyway, delighted curiosity writ large over his features. “This is really happening,” he said, spreading his legs wider, angling his hips up. “I suppose you’d like me to shut up now?”

Derek pressed in, an inch, two, and away again when Stiles let his mouth fall open, let his head drop back. In again, further, deeper, and Stiles started babbling in another language – or maybe it was just noise.

“You can talk,” Derek said.

“I sure can. I can talk underwater. I can talk with two MacDonalds cheeseburgers in my mouth. Oh, you mean you don’t mind it? Ah, oh god, Derek. This is torture.”

Derek didn’t grin because it wasn’t something Derek did often but his scowl softened, and with a firm swipe of his hips, he was fully inside of Stiles.

“Want me to try some dirty talk, you hunk of man-meat you? I’ll give it a go.”

Derek snickered, and pulled out a little, and straight back in, carefully angling himself to hit Stiles’s prostate again.

“Oh my fucking god do that again. Again? Please? Maybe just a teensy bit faster? I’m kind of keen to get past the sensitive wolf-man part of the night’s activities and get down to some serious fucking, if it’s all the same to you. I know I’m new at this but I really… oh, yeah, like that. Like I said I’ve watched a lot of porn. Keen to basically work my way through the Sean Cody playbook, if you’re up for it. I mean not all at once, you know, gotta condition my ass a bit first. I don’t… ah, yep, that’s what I meant. Fantastic! So this is sex, huh? So far I…” and then he bit his tongue, and made a few nonsense syllables, and Derek rolled his hips again; getting faster, now, but still horribly aware that Stiles was, well, delicate wasn’t the word he was searching for…

It worked, though. Yep. Delicate, though the scent coming off his body suggested otherwise. It was thick and powerful and intoxicating and Derek let out a low growl when Stiles moved to take hold of his wrist.

This was going to be a hell of a thing to explain to Scott, and the others. They’d have a mingled scent, now.

Stiles’s head fell back again, his eyes closed, his free hand sort of vaguely reaching for Derek. “Can I take a rain check on the dirty talk thing? I can’t think straight.”

Derek snickered, but couldn’t really answer, his own head increasingly clouded. “Yeah,” he said, building the pace again, breathing in the wonderful scent of Stiles, until he felt his balls fill, and swell. He pressed his lips to Stiles’s again, eliciting a startled murmur and an enthusiastic mouthful of tongue, and then he came, hard. Stiles sort of squeaked, eyebrows flying right up into his hairline, and grinned against Derek’s mouth.

“You just filled my sexy ass up with crazy werewolf spunk, huh? Interesting.” He waggled those eyebrows again – is caterpillaresque a word, Derek wondered, but figured it was appropriate either way – and relaxed against the pillows, running a hand absently over Derek’s arm. “That was… well I’d say that was awesome but I have no basis for comparison. Can I say it was awesome? Sort of hurt a bit too but that’s probably to be expected. I’ll adjust. Are we gonna do it again? Promise, no cologne,” he said, and bit clumsily at Derek’s lip again.

Derek pulled out, eliciting a sort of disappointed yelp, and lay on the bed beside Stiles. “We can do it again,” he said at last.

Yeah so fuck Derek Hale's entire fucking life.

He'd cope.

Notes:

First time writing Sterek. It was FUN. Watch out for a ridiculous physical therapy AU in the near future.